


Fallen

by drforrester



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, please read my notes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 10:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16637825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drforrester/pseuds/drforrester
Summary: “Of course, Saruman was to be spared because he was ‘once great,’ but what was to be the fate of one fallen from a much more modest circumstance but fallen all the same?”The events of the end of ‘The Scouring of the Shire’ from Gríma’s perspective.(This is a rewrite from a fanfic I wrote and never published in 2012, when I was 12.)





	Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: violence, murder, and slight self harm, nothing graphic self-harm-wise though.   
> As I stated in the summary: this is a rewrite of something I wrote when I was 12, six years later. I’m pretty proud of how it came out so I hope you all enjoy! Also: all quotes are directly from the book so I do not claim credit for those (obviously lol).

There was a coldness about the hut. It was not the cold of winter or the cold of night, just cold. 

A cloaked figure lay sprawled across the floor, appearing lifeless except for the rhythm of its shallow breathing. The air was so fouled with the stale stench of guilt that it was barely worth breathing in at all. 

At once, Gríma opened his eyes and, with effort, maneuvered himself into a sitting position. As was becoming usual, his attempt to sleep was futile. He hadn’t slept since he had murdered Lotho Sackville-Baggins on Saruman’s orders two nights previously. All he could see when he closed his eyes was the blood spurting out of the hobbit’s throat where he had slit it. He had held his hand to the hobbit’s mouth to muffle his screams until at last his body lay still.

He recalled how pleased Saruman had been when he had reported that Lotho was dead but the wizard was not pleased with Gríma but with himself. Now he ruled the Shire with no blood on his hands and Gríma’s own feelings on the matter were of no concern to him. If anything, Saruman found his guilt amusing. 

Saruman knew well that mortals needed to eat to survive and he had exploited this need to be assured that Gríma would do his bidding. In the end, though, all that Gríma received in return for the murder was a stale crust of bread and a beating when he begged for more.

However, now Gríma was quite sure that, starving as he was, if a feast was laid before him, he could not eat a bite. Something deep inside of him was unsettled and starvation seemed to be a preferable option to continuing to nourish his broken soul. 

He was no more Gríma, son of Galmod, man of Rohan but instead, Worm, betrayer of his people, murderer of the innocent, and slave of Saruman and he had no one to blame but himself. 

Suddenly, as if possessed, he took out the dagger he had used two nights ago, still stained with Hobbit blood, and began scrubbing it frantically with his cloak. He did not stop until every drop of Lotho’s blood was cleansed from it and it shone innocently in the light that came in through the cracks between the uneven boards that made up the walls. 

“Slave of Saruman,” he repeated to himself, as he studied the blade and warm tears began to pour down his sunken cheeks. 

How had he fallen for those false promises of power and glory? Why didn’t he see Saruman for what he was back when there was still a chance for him? How foolish he had been to think that he was ever in control. 

Rolling up his sleeve, he pointed the sharp tip of the dagger to his wrist and pushed down gently until a small bead of blood appeared and trickled down his arm. 

How he wished that he could slit his own throat as he had Lotho’s but he had not the courage to do so. He supposed that he would die slowly of starvation or perhaps, if he was lucky, Saruman’s next beating would kill him. Truly though, he was already dead for he lived for nothing but death. 

“Worm, Worm!” 

Saruman’s shrill voice from outside his hut awoke him from his dreamlike state and, stashing the dagger back in his pocket, he staggered to the door to see what his master wanted from him now. 

To his surprise, as he reached the door, more hobbits than he had ever seen before were gathered with weapons in hand and Saruman stood unmistakably amidst them, nearly twice their height. 

“To the road again Worm” Saruman said, seeming unconcerned, “These fine fellows and lordlings are turning us adrift again. Come along!”

Seeing no plausible alternative, Gríma began to follow along behind Saruman despondently. He did not meet the eyes of the hobbits, and focused only on the ground in front of him until a flash of silver caught his eye. He watched in horror as Saruman brought a knife down to stab a certain dark-haired hobbit but, to his amazement, the knife broke upon making contact with the hobbit’s chest and, within seconds, a group of hobbits had the wizard pinned to the ground. 

One hobbit began to draw his sword and Gríma’s eyes widened. Could this finally be the salvation that he did not deserve? 

“No, Sam,” the nearly-stabbed hobbit spoke up, much to Gríma’s dismay. “Do not kill him even now. For he has not hurt me. And in any case I do not wish him to be slain in this evil mood. He was great once, of a noble kind that we should not dare raise our hands against. He is fallen, and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him, in the hope that he may find it.”

Gríma’s last bit of hope died at once as the hobbits reluctantly allowed Saruman to get to his feet. Of course, Saruman was to be spared because he was ‘once great,’ but what was to be the fate of one fallen from a much more modest circumstance but fallen all the same? 

“You have grown, Halfling” Saruman said with hate in his eyes. “Yes, you have grown very much. You have robbed my revenge of sweetness, and now I must go hence in bitterness, in debt to your mercy. I hate it and you! Well I will go and trouble you no more. But do not expect me to wish you health and long life. You will have neither. But that is not my doing. I merely foretell.” 

Saruman turned to go and Gríma began to follow after him until suddenly, he heard the dark-haired hobbit call after him. 

“Wormtongue! You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can have rest and food here for a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways.”

Gríma turned and looked the hobbit in the eye, mouth slightly agape. He could scarcely remember the last time he had been spoken to with such kindness. He felt as though his chest was bursting as something awakened inside of it that he had long thought dead. Perhaps there was a future for him after all. He could be free of Saruman at last and make an honest life for himself. His head spinning with the prospect of it all, he was struggling to find his voice when suddenly, another voice spoke with no kindness in its tone. 

“No evil?” Saruman mocked “Oh no! Even when he sneaks out at night it is only to look at the stars. But did I hear someone ask where poor Lotho is hiding? You know, don’t you Worm, will you tell them?”

His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach and, as quickly as the feeling of hope had come, it was gone again, leaving only despair. 

“No, No!” he begged. 

“Then I will” Saruman said with a smirk. Worm killed your Chief, poor little fellow, your nice little Boss. Didn’t you, Worm? Stabbed him in his sleep, I believe. Buried him, I hope; although Worm has been very hungry lately. No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me.”

The hobbits tightened their grips on their weapons but Gríma barely noticed. What did it matter now if he lived or died? For no reason except his own bitterness, Saruman had destroyed Gríma’s last chance at salvation and now there was nothing left in him but hatred. 

“You told me to; you made me do it,” he hissed, knowing it would make no difference. 

What a hilarious joke it all was now. Gríma had killed Lotho to stay alive and now that murder had sealed his fate to live out the rest of his days in misery and to die an equally miserable death. Yes it really was all very funny looking back on it and, appropriately, Saruman laughed. 

“You do what Sharkey says, always, don’t you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow!”

Gríma barely felt the crunch of his nose as Saruman’s kicked him for, in that moment, something else inside of him snapped that had nothing to do with his broken bones. He had no more doubt about what he had to do. 

He was beyond redemption and maybe he didn’t deserve it either but it didn’t matter now. All that remained was hatred and he could see only one option. 

Just as Saruman turned from him, Gríma jumped onto the wizard’s back and slit his throat, cutting deeply to ensure his success. 

Without another thought, he ran from the shocked hobbits, nearly skipping in his glee. It was as though a great burden had been lifted off his back and the air he breathed in felt cool and fresh again. 

The pain that shot through his body as an arrow pierced him was of no consequence and, as he fell to the ground, one last thought passed through his mind:

“I am no longer Worm, slave of Saruman. I die now as Gríma, son of Galmod. A free man with a will of my own.”

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, write me a comment or leave kudo if you enjoyed! Thanks so much for reading and have a super day!


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